


The Weight of it All

by neptunedemon



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Ambiguity, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Drabble, Hinted AkuRoku, Souls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9344495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neptunedemon/pseuds/neptunedemon
Summary: A short piece on the transitions of a soul from and to its vessel, and all the pain involved.Takes place during the lab wake-up in Dream Drop Distance.





	

To be born is to  _stop_  in a universe.

The soul transfuses through membranes of many universes and through the cosmos; it ages, it becomes wise, and then it gets caught in a vessel, stuck in a moment in space-time. Its past shapes the experiences of that vessel, and the soul traverses through the short-second lifespan of that organic being. It is much like a maze: the goal is to find the proper way out to re-enter the infinite and continue on, just a bit more enlightened. 

But what are the effects of a soul that has been lost? That was ripped away before the completion of its intended journey, snatched through a wall in the maze, tossed into a turmoil of darkness? Far away, the vessel -- that person, he acts on his own accord, lost without his soul. His actions are acts spawned from memories and nothing more. And that soul aches dully, an echo of what it was like to have a body to emphasize sensations across the spectrum of fear and love, happiness and grief. And at night, he who misses his soul dreams only the darkness his soul is lost in. He, too, aches dully, abandoned by the source of the most intimate emotions. What did it mean to  _feel_? Is it worth missing? 

It only seems so because he has memories of being afraid to lose that part of himself. 

Sometimes he can almost feel his missing part. For scarce seconds it happens, like seeing something flit across one's peripheral view. Something was doubtfully there, but the notion lingers a long while.

But there's something else.

When he stares into the eyes of another, one he calls a friend -- though most days the term has hardly a significance -- he sees it in them. It's tangible, just out of reach... for whole seconds at a time, he feels like his own soul rests within that person, and it reaches across space to him as something warm and heavy, anchoring him to the physical plane. The refuge is blissful. 

But it always disappears.

It's so, so easy to find shelter in the eyes that remind him what being human was like. After a while, it is effortless to flow straight into those eyes, purposeful as a river drifting to sea. That person pulled from him things straight from the abyssal land in which his soul dwelt. 

It hurts, though. Sometimes the warmth is searing heat. Vibrant, painful cries shoot throughout his body when he's lost in the delusion of being whole. The pain is good because it's real. He imagines venom has been injected into him, and he can feel it course through him -- the beat of a heart, the pulse of blood, did it always hurt this much?

When those eyes were torn from him with the notion of forever, it was madness. His veins went cold and brittle, his being merely a faded projection of light and nothingness. More and more, he lost sight of his own goals to find the missing link between him and being whole, and instead only sought to find what once artificially filled the void.

And then when it was all finally, absolutely lost, when all had ended and he'd finally get to rest, something happened.

Instead of the expected peaceful darkness, the weight of a hundred tons was dropped on him, and he crashed to some unbeknownst ground.

Oh, how excruciating it was: to have one's soul drug back inside them without warning. After having been defiled in the dark, it wasn't the bittersweet familiar reunion he'd imagined. He didn't know how long he lay shackled to the ground, and at the worst points, part of him thought this must actually be Hell. 

In reality, it was likely only minutes that passed as the weight gradually lightened to something more bearable, though eternity it seemed to be. And still, he couldn't find the will of movement.

Lea's eyes fluttered open. Bright, bleary fluorescent light shot a dull, aching thud through his head, and he winced away from it. He shut his eyes again. His headache resonated with another sore thrumming that was evident now that the most grueling pain had passed. His entire body felt sore from the inside, and his limbs felt stricken, unable to move.

 _I'm not dead_ , he thought, and the thrumming concentrated in his stomach, like someone was twisting him with the intent to snap him in half. He remembered this: confusion, nervousness, fear...

He was... Lea, now? Yes, definitely -- the certainty alleviated the twisting sensation, and he was beginning to grow clearer in understanding of his situation.

But even with a lifting fog, still he could not focus on the movements of his limbs or the reopening of his eyes when there was so much going on. How had he ever lived this way? He wanted to focus on one thought, but every nerve inside of him screamed at his mind for an explanation.

He needed to find someone. Someone to explain where he was, what had happened, maybe someone to help him, someone to --

Involuntarily, the eyes of a  _someone_  flashed in his mind, and he knew why: it was the most important someone. He felt the strangest, almost warm inclination to let the image melt beyond those eyes, and so it did, slowly, until a someone-most-familiar was back-dropped against a gleaming sunset from a memory that didn't quite feel to be his own anymore.

The thrum vibrated harder, like a parasite stirring at the images in his mind. It drained away from every limb, every part of him, and in some ways, even the pains of his head were extracted from... and it all seeped into his chest. His chambers creaked with the pressure, his blood pulsed so harshly it was like every inch of skin was bruised, and breathing seemed forgotten.

What was this feeling? What had it been called? Had he not felt a much duller, fainter echo of it when he'd seen those eyes in his pretend life?

It was something, like, well -- he was pretty sure he knew this, it was on the edge of the emotion terminology in his mind, breaking the surface -- right! Right, it's...  _oh_.

It was that one.

 


End file.
